I’m Not Just Trying to Find My Style.

I’m Trying Everything.

One of the questions artists seem to get asked over and over again is some version of, “What kind of art do you make?” I never quite know how to answer that because right now, the answer is a little bit of everything.

I paint with watercolor. I’m learning acrylics. I make tiny ACEO paintings. I want to paint much larger canvases. I’ve started experimenting with dimensional paper art, I bought modeling paste because I want to play with texture, and eventually I want to start experimenting with paper clay and sculpture. Somewhere in all of that, I’m sure there is a recognizable artistic style developing, but I’m not particularly interested in forcing myself to find it.

Right now, I’m playing.

I Don't Want to Pick One Thing Yet

There are artists who become known for a particular subject or medium, and I completely understand why. There is something wonderful about mastering a craft to the point where someone can see a piece of artwork and immediately recognize who created it. Maybe I'll eventually get there too, but I don't think I'm there yet, and I'm realizing I don't particularly want to rush it.

I'm still trying to figure out what I enjoy doing.

Watercolor has taught me patience and has pushed me to loosen up a little. Acrylic paint is opening an entirely different door because I can layer it, cover mistakes, build color and eventually start adding texture. Drawing architecture challenges the part of my brain that loves lines, shapes, perspective and details. Small paintings let me experiment without feeling like I've committed an entire week and an expensive canvas to an idea that might not work.

Each medium is teaching me something different, and right now that feels more valuable than deciding I'm going to be one specific kind of artist.

I think sometimes we put too much pressure on ourselves to make every piece of art mean something. It has to be finished. It has to be sellable. It has to fit our portfolio. It has to look good enough to post online. It has to somehow move us closer to whatever we're supposed to be building.

But some art needs to exist simply because you wondered what would happen.

That's become a huge part of what I'm doing lately. I see something that interests me and think, I wonder if I could do that? Sometimes I try the technique and immediately realize it's not for me. Other times it turns into something completely different from the original inspiration, and that's when it gets interesting.

I don't necessarily want to reproduce what I saw someone else make. I want to understand the idea behind it and then see where my own brain takes it.

That's how I'm learning.

My Art Supplies Are Starting to Tell the Story

If you looked around my workspace right now, you could probably trace this entire creative journey by what I've accumulated.

There are watercolors and stacks of watercolor paper. There are acrylic paints and brushes. There are tiny pieces of art sitting beside larger surfaces that I haven't quite figured out yet. Now there's modeling paste because I want to start experimenting with texture and creating paintings that have physical depth instead of only the illusion of it.

Then there's all the paper.

That has become an entirely different obsession.

I had a lot of watercolor paper already, and after seeing someone use torn watercolor paper to build a landscape, I started wondering what I could do with the idea. I painted the paper, tore it, cut it, layered it and started creating little dimensional scenes. Suddenly watercolor wasn't just something I had to paint on. The paper itself could become part of the artwork.

That one realization sent my brain in about twelve different directions.

And that's exactly what I want creativity to do.

I Don't Know If I Need a Cricut, But Here We Are

I've even started considering buying a Cricut.

I'm not completely convinced yet because part of me still really enjoys cutting and tearing things by hand. The imperfections are part of what makes the pieces interesting to me. At the same time, I can see where having the ability to precisely cut certain shapes could open another set of possibilities, particularly as these dimensional pieces become more complicated.

That's the dangerous thing about experimenting with art. One idea inevitably requires three new tools and creates six more ideas.

I haven't decided where this particular experiment is going, and I'm deliberately trying not to.

I want to see what happens first.

My Hands Are Changing How I Create

There is also a practical reason I've become more interested in experimenting with different ways of making art. My hands aren't always as cooperative as they used to be. Years of photography, art and simply using my hands for everything I've done creatively have taken a toll, and arthritis is becoming something I have to work around more often.

There are days when painting for long periods is uncomfortable. There are movements that hurt more than they used to, and as frustrating as that is, wishing I could go backward isn't going to change where I am now.

So part of this experimentation is also adaptation.

I still want to create. I still want to make things, develop ideas and push myself creatively. That means I also have to discover different ways of working so I'm not relying on one repetitive movement or one medium all the time. Some days that might mean painting. Other days it might mean assembling paper, sketching an idea, experimenting with texture or working on something completely different.

I'm not interested in giving up creativity because the way I physically create may have to change.

I'm interested in figuring out what else I can do.

I Want to Paint Bigger

Ironically, while I'm experimenting with all of these different materials, one of the things I want most is to paint bigger.

I've spent a lot of time making ACEOs, which are only 2.5 by 3.5 inches. I love them because they're fantastic little experiments. I can test an idea, try a color combination, practice a subject or completely screw something up without feeling like I've ruined a giant canvas.

But I also noticed something happening.

The more comfortable I became working small, the more intimidating larger paintings started to feel.

I don't want that.

I want to create canvases that make me nervous when I start them. I want to experiment with acrylic paint and modeling paste and figure out how to create texture that physically comes off the surface. I want to create landscapes with depth. I'd love to eventually create architectural pieces that combine some of these ideas, even though I don't think I have the skill set to accomplish exactly what I'm imagining yet.

Yet is the important word.

If there's anything photography taught me, it's that skill comes from doing something repeatedly. I don't need to know how to make those paintings today. I just need to start moving in that direction.

That's probably the most interesting thing happening in my art right now. Nothing seems to exist by itself.

Watercolor made me think about acrylic. Acrylic made me think about texture. Texture made me think about dimensional artwork. Dimensional artwork made me look differently at watercolor paper. Paper led me toward sculpture, which eventually led me down a rabbit hole researching paper clay and wondering whether I could turn some of the ridiculous amount of cardboard coming into our house into art materials.

One idea keeps leading to another.

I could probably look at that and say I'm scattered. Maybe I am. But I don't think being creatively scattered is necessarily a bad thing, particularly when you're still figuring out where you want to go.

Sometimes following the distraction is how you find the thing you didn't know you were looking for.

Maybe My Style Is Already There

The funny thing is that while I'm saying I haven't found my style, maybe that's not entirely true.

Style isn't necessarily watercolor versus acrylic or landscapes versus architecture. It doesn't have to mean painting the same subject over and over until people associate you with it. Maybe style develops much more quietly than that.

It might be in the colors I'm repeatedly drawn to, the way I simplify a building, the marks I make, the subjects that catch my attention or the way I choose to interpret a landscape. It might already be appearing in my work without me consciously trying to manufacture it.

I'd rather let that happen naturally.

I don't want to decide what my art is supposed to look like and then spend the next twenty years trying to stay inside that definition.

For now, I want to paint tiny.

I want to paint big.

I want to tear paper apart and put it back together. I want to smear modeling paste onto a canvas and see what happens. I want to make paper clay out of cardboard that otherwise would have ended up in the recycling bin. I want to try things I'm terrible at until I'm slightly less terrible at them.

Most of all, I want to stay curious.

I'm not trying to find my style right now.

I'm trying everything.

And maybe somewhere in all that experimenting, my style will find me.